Small Things
by Mary West
Summary: In the winter that she was held captive at Malfoy Manor, Luna somehow kept her spirits, her soul and her life. How?


_From Livejournal's "Prisoner Fest" - Based roughly on the prompt "2. The torturer was supposed to control the tortured, not the other way around." I'm afraid it wouldn't go to full-on slash, but it's gone to a dark side of its very own. Canon-compliant._

_Disclaimer: JK Rowling created an amazing place, wonderful characters and a stunning story. I own no part of it nor do I get any money from it, and am merely grateful to be allowed to play in the sandbox, with a few small things..._

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><p>She was grateful for small things – it helped keep her going. It had kept her going at school when people picked on her and stole her stuff – for all that she told Harry that she didn't really mind, it had hurt like hell at the beginning. And being called "Looney Luna" wasn't very nice either, but telling people that it wasn't nice was asking for trippings and cold stewed plums down your back and finding your books not just taken but covered in ink and dirt and used as bludgers in a corridor-based Quidditch match.<p>

And it kept her going now. She was grateful that she'd thought the Scottish weather was dark and gloomy, and had decided to wear her brightest and most colourful coat on the train on the way home for Christmas. That same coat had stopped _them _from twisting her arms out of their sockets, as the thick woollen fabric had protected the limbs when the Death Eaters started pulling. It had cushioned her fall when they'd dropped her on the hard stone floors of Malfoy Manor, in front of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and his cohort. And it was warm, warmer than just her clothes would have been in the dungeon below the main floor, where she'd spent the last few weeks. Even the colour was a thing to be thankful for, as it lifted the darkness and gave the eyes something to rest on when all around was otherwise a uniform grey. The coat was getting grubby now, and was starting to come apart at the back seam where she lay on it and wrapped the front around her, but it would last a lot longer, she was sure of it.

Luna rolled over and looked at her cellmate. The elderly wizard's breath was rasping in and out of his lungs, and she was glad he hadn't caught pneumonia. She'd made him agree from the first night she arrived that they should sleep huddled together, and he had been too weak then to argue. Now he welcomed the shared heat and comfort, and called her his granddaughter. And it meant that every time one of them was hauled upstairs, there was someone to check when you were thrown back into the cell, to make sure you were lying on your side so that you wouldn't choke to death when you threw up. You always threw up. Either from a _Crucio _or a beating or sometimes just as a reaction to things you were told. And if there had been a beating, the other person could check for broken bones, and bind up sore ribs, or carefully feed the victim some soup saved from the morning meal. Or just hold you while you wept silently, your soul threatening to curl up and die because the darkness was getting to you.

A noise in the corridor alerted Luna to the approach of the morning patrol, bringing some fresh water and a couple of stale rolls, and if they were very lucky a piece of fruit. The week before, Peter Pettigrew had given her an apple, and a look that indicated that he expected to be thanked with more than words, but she put on the sweetest of her innocent faces and told him she thought he was really a good person underneath. And then she watched as his face flickered from pleased to conflicted to disgusted with himself, and he had shut the door in a hurry and had Rookwood deliver the next few meals. The apple had been lovely. She had carefully eaten it only on one side then gave the other half to Mr Ollivander, who had called it the most wonderful Twelfth Night gift he had ever had, and she realised that he at least had a grasp on the date.

The footsteps stopped with a metallic click, and Luna sat up and watched the door. As it opened, she tried not to shudder. Framed in the doorway, black hair flying every which way, stood Bellatrix. Her eyes gleamed in the tiny sliver of light that came through a grate opposite, and her black robes radiated a chill that sunk to the very depths of Luna's soul.

_Be grateful. Small things._

Luna sat up and looked Bellatrix straight in the eye. "Good morning, Bellatrix. Did _He_ want to talk to Mr Ollivander again? I don't think Mr Ollivander is up to it _URGH..._"

Once she had kicked Luna, Bellatrix wiped the toe of her boot off on the filthy blanket that covered the prisoners. "You'll speak when you're ordered to, Blood Traitor, or I'll give you to the same wizard they gave your father to."

Luna lay on her side, gasping, until her muscles would let her breathe normally again. Her vision cleared slowly, and she bit her lip so that she wouldn't cry. Not from the pain, not from the name-calling, and definitely not from the only news she'd had of her father since Christmas. Her diaphragm spasms kept her from speaking, and not even a moan escaped her. Leaning over her, Bellatrix grabbed her ear and hauled her to her feet, the bottom of the ear lobe tearing slightly. Luna staggered, then found her balance, and looked Bellatrix in the eye.

There must have been a hint of defiance in her gaze, because Bellatrix immediately back-handed her hard enough to knock her down again.

"Bitch. Muggle-lover."

The blood from Luna's split lip dripped slowly down onto her jumper, mingling with the pattern of dirigible-plums she'd knitted into it on a happier occasion.

_Small things._

"Is it me the Dark Lord is wanting? Something I can do for him?"

Luna risked looking up once more into Bellatrix's eyes, and tried to think of what _He_ could possibly want with a young student-girl. And then she realised. If the Dark Lord _didn't_want anything from her, then she … wouldn't be needed anymore.

"Perhaps I could tell you something that He might want, and He would be glad you found it out."

Because if Bellatrix thought she was getting information that Voldemort needed, then _Bellatrix _would want Luna alive.

For a second, Luna thought she saw something flicker across Bellatrix's eyes. A slightly curious look. Luna decided to try a little further.

"Is it true that you're the Dark Lord's closest companion?" At the lack of response, Luna dared to risk trying to stand up. It hurt less, breathing through a split lip and a mashed nose and with ribs that felt as if one might be cracked. Or at least very, very bruised. "He must trust you very much. I think it's nice when people trust you. It's just like you were friends...:"

"SILENCE!" Bellatrix stepped towards Luna, but this time didn't hit her. Ollivander, watching from the bed pile, held his breath as Bellatrix grabbed Luna's face and pulled it towards her.

The two women looked at each other, Bellatrix using her nails to hold onto Luna's face and keep it still, Luna not flinching.

Then Bellatrix wiped a finger from her other hand across Luna's lips, then licked the finger daintily, the blood glistening on her tongue. Luna stayed very still, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, until Bellatrix let her go and took a step back.

"What is it you know?"

"I know where Harry Potter likes to go."

Bellatrix stood silently, glaring at Luna. Luna tried not to think of cats and mice, and smiled sweetly at Bellatrix, with not a touch of guile in her face as she did.

"Harry really likes things like Quidditch, and he likes brooms."

"We _know _this. Give me something useful."

"Well, you could try checking with the broom-makers in the towns. There aren't very many, and if Harry is trying to get a broom, he might go to one of them. And his favourite was Quality Quidditch Supplies."

The glare that Bellatrix was directing at Luna softened, as the dark witch's mind processed the information. Finally...

"Are you sure about this?"

"Well I can't be sure, not totally sure, but just as you'd look better in a dark blue rather than the black you always wear, Harry might be trying to find brooms to get around on. He likes the really fast ones."

Bellatrix walked back over to Luna and once more back-handed her so hard that the girl was thrown to the floor. "You'd better be right about this, or you'll suffer."

Turning on one metal-shod heel, the witch walked out the door, and Peter Pettigrew shuffled in timidly with a bucket of water and two scrawny bread rolls. No apples.

Once he left, Mr Ollivander took a rag and began washing Luna's face. Luna stood it for a moment, then the tears rushed out and she hugged the old man and cried on his shoulder for half an hour, saying nothing but sobbing her heart out. Finally she stopped, and Mr Ollivander gently washed her face until the tracks of her tears through the dirt were gone. His look, though, was mildly disapproving, which broke her heart more than anything. She took his hand, and looked him right in the eye.

"You don't think I should have told her that."

"It's not for me to judge you, child."

Luna smiled. "They already knew about the broom makers. Draco Malfoy was boasting about it last term. And if they've still got Hermione with them, they'll never be using _brooms_."

"But why...?"

"I was just giving her information they already had to make them think I know something worthwhile. I'll have to be careful only to give them things that don't matter, in case I accidentally tell her something that Harry's _really _doing, but it means she thinks I'm not worthless. And as long as she thinks that..."

"I see. You are a bright young witch, aren't you?"

Luna's smile grew large enough that even a full-sized nargle couldn't have covered it. "I'm a different sort of a witch. I don't think like Hermione, yet I might be able to pull this off. But I'll need you to do something."

Mr Ollivander looked at her, puzzled, and then his face cleared. "You want me to act angry with you, because you've been giving away information. Very well then."

"Thank you."

"But how...?"

Luna's smile should have lit up the whole cell, it was so bright. "How will we know if it's working?"

"Yes."

"We'll know." And she wouldn't say anything more, but took up the two rolls and dipped them in the bucket of water to soften them. Passing one to Mr Ollivander, she gnawed at the other one and occasionally smiled again.

For two days, nothing changed. The meals were the usual ones: stale rolls for breakfast and a tin of rancid stew in the evenings.

Then, on the third day, they heard the sound of Bellatrix yelling at Peter, and the jangle of keys at a time that wasn't a meal time. The door to the cell flew open and Bellatrix stood there, once more framed by the light. She strode in, and stood in front of Luna, arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

But Luna looked at Mr Ollivander, and as they both looked back at Bellatrix, they both just managed to keep a small smile from showing.

_Small things._

Bellatrix was wearing dark blue.


End file.
